In the twenty-third year
by JustTrollingUniverse
Summary: A glimpse into the life of Elsie Hughes. Starts with her first day at Downton in 1902, captures moments of the following years - one for each. The last chapters might contain spoilers, if you haven't watched Series 5.
1. Prologue

**Prologue**

1902

The room is small, but nice. Two beds and commodes, a wardrobe and three windows. There are curtains, faded and thin, still pretty. She'll like it here. Even if she doesn't, it's her home for the time being.

"The right bed is mine", the maid next to her states. Vicky; a horse of a girl. Her hair is beautiful though, heavy and golden. "So is the right side of the wardrobe."

"I see", she smiles. It's one of those smiles that come easily these days, almost naturally; one of the qualities of a good servant, never mind the real feelings. "I'll use the left then."

"You can have those too", Vicky says, does it with the same smile while she opens some empty drawers of one of the commodes. She also shows her where to find spare aprons and bonnets, how to open the warped window, the grid that's supposed to heat the room.

The rest is as old as history. No cooking, no smoking, no noise in the room. Actually no noise at all. No swearing or men. Period. Waking time is at half past five, bedtime whenever the last task is finished and the housekeeper discharges them for the night.

"Lunch will be in forty minutes." Vicky finishes and hands her two uniform dresses. Her predecessor left them, they're as good as new. A bit too big maybe, but she can alter them if she wants to. "You shouldn't be late. Mrs. Winter detests tardiness and so does Mr. Carson. I'll show you the rest of the house afterwards."

"Thank you, Vicky." She says with another of those smiles, careful to not wrinkle the clothes in her arms.

"There's no need to thank me." The maid shrugs and starts to check her hair in the mirror. "It's not as if I had a choice."

She ponders her answer, gaining some time by putting the dresses into the wardrobe. She doesn't need to be friends with her colleague, doesn't need an enemy either.

"Even if you hadn't", she answers eventually, looking at her through the mirror. "I hope we'll get on."

"There's no need for that either;" Vicky fixes a loose hairpin. "I'll be leaving by the end of the month."

"I'm sorry to hear that."

Vicky turns around, raises her brows and smiles. It's a real one that smile. The sneering twitching at the corners of her mouth gives her away. "Why would you be?"

This time she doesn't answer, bites her tongue and nods. She puts her luggage on the bed as Vicky leaves the room. The girl is right. Why would she care? She doesn't know her and never will. There'll be another maid, there's always another maid; none of them irreplaceable.

She runs a thumb over the label of her trunk. _Elspeth Hughes_ the faded ink reads, although no one ever calls her that. But her mother insisted and there was no reason to object.

_Elspeth Hughes_. Harmonious letters written sixteen years ago when she first left home, left it at an age in which she should've been married already.

She, Elspeth, Elsie, shakes her head and opens the trunk. There's not much in it. She's wearing her Sunday best already and what else does she need? Another skirt, two blouses, her woolen coat. Undergarments, sponge bag, a pair of shoes. She owns some books, kept some old letters and photographs.

There's a velvet pouch which contains a brooch and there's a bunch of flowers. She takes the pouch and puts it under the pillow. Thinks and puts it under the mattress before shoving it into the lining of her trunk instead. The flowers end up on the bedside table. Cornflowers and poppies, pressed and withered already. Joe Burns gave them to her the last time she saw him. He always brings flowers when they meet. Flowers or another small gift. Apples and pears, gleaming feathers as black as pitch, a beautiful snake-stone he found in the fields. She assumed why, yet he never asked. Not even an insinuation in twenty-two months, nothing more than flowers and feathers every fortnight, a fleeting hand on her back and warm lips pressed to her knuckles as they parted at the gate of Abbotsford House. Well, until now. Until she'd told him she'd be leaving Scotland by the end of the month. Then he'd asked.

She's almost forty and yet he asked her to marry him. No one ever did before. Of course not. She's from a small village. Everyone knows everything and everybody knows daffy Becky. She doesn't blame the young men for not queuing up when she was younger. Really. A few sheet and pounds are hardly a dowry which countervails the prospects of ending up with a sister-in-law like that. Drivelling and babbling, a cumbersome, useless eater.

Maybe if she'd been less stubborn and proud, she would've been able to seduce one of the other crofters' sons into marriage. Actually, she knows she could have. Niall Brown tried to get under her skirt at more than one village dance; it surely wouldn't have taken a full roll in the hay to walk down the aisle with him.

But she is stubborn and proud. She wouldn't have had any of them. Not Niall with his bad teeth or his younger brother, neither Alan Mitchell nor his cousins. Kind souls they were, the Mitchell men; good-natured and dull as oxen. Even so, most of them made better matches than she would have been back then.

It's not like she's a better one now. But she can tell Joe is fond of her and if he needs something it's a wife and not money. His son is only twelve and the farm, though small, is too large to work without help; every penny spent on a farm hand an unnecessary expense. But they could manage together. He owns the land, they'll make a solid living. There might even be a child. It's unlikely, but not unheard of; she's still regular after all. They could have a nice life. Her mother and Becky could live with them. Joe might agree, if she asks him. She has to, she won't have money to send home when she marries him. Maybe they should have talked about it already, but then there really was no need until now. There still won't be, if she declines.

She bites her lip and eventually starts to unpack the rest of her belongings. Although Vicky will soon be gone, she puts the flowers between her undergarments. She simply doesn't feel like answering any questions. Even if she were able to answer them. 

**To be continued**

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><p><em>* According to all we know, Elsie Hughes was born in 1862 and never knew the Crawley girls as infantssmall children. Hence she must've been in her late 30s, maybe 40 "already", when she started working at Downton Abbey. _

_We also know, Joe proposed after she'd been offered the position as head housemaid at Downton. Elsie declined and he married another girl/woman._

_Therefore his son Peter hardly could've been older than 10 and member of the army already when Joe proposed the second time in 1912/13. _

_Unless, of course, Ivy wasn't his first wife - and he asked Elsie to become his second when he first proposed, his third in Series 1. _

_So, there's your canon. At least it's mine. For now. _

_* Abbotsford House - located in the South of Scotland, built by Walter Scott. Elsie likes to read, hence __Abbotsford seemd to be ___a nice choice for her previous working place. __

* * *

><p>Thanks <strong>(!)<strong> to Lindsey Grissom for agreeing to be my Beta. I'm thrilled. And you'll probably regret it


	2. First year

**First year  
>(1902)<strong>

Lord and Lady Grantham are back from a short season in London, the frenetic spring cleaning of the house immediately followed by preparations for today's garden party. The entire household is up and about; the footmen carry trays with crystal through the open French doors, the hall boys are setting up torches on the lawn and the cook's voice sounds through the summer air. Even Cora Crawley joined the turmoil; arranging white flowers with one of the maids. Elsie knows the gardener just cut them, yet they are drooping already. No wonder, it's been ridiculously hot for weeks now. Her mother wrote that the heat wave even reached the Highlands, drying-out the corn on the fields and she is glad they don't depend on a good harvest anymore. Joe will suffer though.

She blinks and tries not to think of him, of the letter she still has to write.

Concentrating on work again, Elsie searches the crowd for Sarah, fighting the urgent need to pull at the lace collar around her neck. It's not even half past ten and she feels like melting. The dark material of her dress literally absorbs the sunrays; there are small drops of sweat running down her spine and her shift sticks to her body, probably soaking her corset already.

She wipes her wet palms on her apron, before plumping up the last cushion on the lawn chairs and starting to put the doilies on the occasional tables. Mrs. Winter walks by, basket of jam jars in her hands, reminding Elsie of the picnic blankets. Once more she tries to trace Sarah, but the girl is nowhere to be seen and the time is ticking away, the first guests will arrive in less than two hours. Not wanting the housekeeper to remind her a second time, she puts the doilies aside, walks back into the house and rushes downstairs to fetch the blankets herself.

"Elspeth!" The butler's voice echoes through the staircase and she stops her motion, her clammy hand clutching the cold wood of the stair rail. "You'll find we do not run at Downton."

"I'm sorry, Mr. Carson." Swallowing an explanation for her rush she turns around, performs a small curtsy that should soothe him instead. She knows he is right.

Charles Carson raises his brows and a small drop of sweat runs down his forehead. "Have you seen Edward?" He enquires, dabbing his temples with a handkerchief.

She suddenly has a vague idea where to find Sarah, cursing the stupid maid silently. "I'm afraid I have not, Mr. Carson."

The butler stares down at her and she stares back, realizing they're having the same suspicion and he's waiting for her to raise the matter.

Elsie tries not to bite her lip as she holds his gaze. "Is there anything else I can do for you, Mr. Carson?" She asks politely.

"Thank you, Elspeth, that will be all." He dismisses her with a nod. "For now." The head of the staff adds as he passes, it sounds almost like a threat.

Cursing Sarah some more, she fetches the blankets and brings them into the garden. She has just finished with the doilies when the other maid finally shows up again. Elsie gives her a death glare, but decides to bite her tongue until later. After all they still have to take care of the spare parasols and fans for the ladies and the guestrooms need a last check before the housekeeper inspects them.

They manage, of course they do, they're both trained well. The parasols and fans are fetched in time; the rooms are up to Mrs. Winter's standards. People arrive and leave, sandwiches, cake and punch get served, there are games and laughter, a small firework display after sunset. Elsie hasn't seen one since the diamond jubilee and for a few minutes there's nothing but the sparkling colours in the sky and the play of the salon orchestra, the distant memory of a warm hand in hers.

It's beautiful. And still, by the time the guests are finally tucked into bed and everything had been cleaned up, she simply craves to get out of her clothes, go to bed and sleep a dreamless sleep.

Actually, Elsie realizes, she wants to drown herself in the washbowl first, lukewarm water or not; their room is an oven. But she is too tired to fetch some cold. Mrs. Winter is blocking the women's bathroom anyway, happily splashing in the tub as she does every evening these days. Well, she is the housekeeper, she's entitled to and Elsie asked the kitchen maid to wake her up first the next morning; she'll have her quick turn then.

She has just put on her nightdress, reluctantly that is, when the door opens and Sarah sneaks in. Her hair braided already, she smells of cigarettes, curd soap and coldness.

"Where on earth have you been?"

"The laundry", she replies with a chuckle and starts to undress. "The washerwomen went home hours ago and the sink is almost as big as the bath. You should try it, Elsie. It may not be the luxury Her Ladyship is used to, but everything's better than what we have to get by with at the moment." She points at the bowl as she hangs her dress. "Would you, please?" She presents Elsie with her back who starts to loosen the lacing of Sarah's corset.

It's not as taut as in the morning, Elsie can tell; she tightened it herself. But then she has just washed and no one would bother to tightlace for the short distance from the laundry to the attics. She knows she wouldn't, especially if she had to do it alone. "What about earlier, Sarah?", she asks quietly however. "Disappearing in the middle of the day while there was still plenty of work to do. Even Mr. Carson noticed and he was not pleased, I can tell you that."

"We're none of Mr. Carson's business." She yawns and slips out of her corset. "Even if - we managed everything in time."

"No thanks to you", Elsie replies while she blows out the candles in the room. "Or Edward for that matter."

"We were barely gone for ten minutes." Sarah protests, climbing into her bed.

"It was thirty, if not more", the reply is sharper than intended. "His Lordship doesn't pay you for sneaking away with one of his footmen."

"Oh, don't you make such a fuss. We were just talking 'bout the weather and somehow must've lost track of time. There's nothing wrong with that."

"I know that kind of talk", she walks to the window, starting a fight with the blasted thing. Although she can't see her face, she knows her roommate is rolling her eyes. "I'm the head housemaid, Sarah. I should report you to Mrs. Winter."

Sarah snorts. "Be my bloody guest, Elspeth. That is if the old bat ever leaves the bathroom again."

"Oh, stop it!" She exclaims. "You know the rules."

"Just because you can't attract a fancy man, doesn't mean we all have to go to seed as servants." Sarah surely knows how to handle a knife and that one sticks. "Just so you know, Edward's going to marry me", she continues, a whiff of triumph in her voice. "We love each other, him and I."

"Then love each other on your days off!" Elsie hisses and, one hand against the frame, pulls at the handle. The window eventually opens and almost hits her face. She is instantly met by a thick wall of air, even hotter than it is inside. Nevertheless she takes a deep breath. Love. Sarah has merely been here for seven weeks and Edward spent half of that time in London. Spent it chasing one of the local girls, kissing her by the servants' entrance of Stockbridge House. The lady's maid told her, Carson apparently exploded and cancelled the footman's half days until Christmas. "You shouldn't meet him at all though, that lad is no good", she adds.

With a smug expression on her face Sarah is about to answer, but she cuts her off. She can't help it. Not now, not boiling with anger. "Don't you even dare to pretend you haven't heard Miss Thompson. I saw you mooching around in the hallway when she told me he was caught with one of Lady Stockbridge's maids."

This time Sarah doesn't even try to reply, but straightens up and blows out the candle on her bedside table, ending the argument, covering the room in darkness.

Elsie slams the window and crawls into bed. She doesn't bother to cover up, just closes her eyes and listens into the night. A door creaks in the distance. There are quiet footsteps in the hall, the door of their own room opens and closes again, the one next door does, a key in a lock. There's silence then. Restrained sobs, almost inaudible, and the loud sound of her heart beating in her chest.

What does she know about it anyway, Elsie thinks, still feeling like strangling the Irish maid. Instead she reaches for the handkerchief under her pillow and hands it to the younger woman.

**To be continued**

* * *

><p><em>*I did not mention it, but I imagine the garden party was the first big event at Downton since Robert returned from the Second Boer War, hence the firework display. Boer War lasted from October 11<em>_th__ 1899 until May 31__st__ 1902. Compared to WWI and WWII it had little effect on daily life and was far away. ~ 450.000 British soldiers served, most of them regulars_ (_cp._ _during WWI over 4.000.000 were recruited from England alone). Although Elise would've known and thought about it, I felt no need to refer to it in this chapter, especially as the Great War will be topic later on. _

_*There was no heat wave in England and Scotland in August 1902, I made that up. _

_*The diamond jubilee of Queen Victoria was in June 1897. The 78-year-old was the first British monarch to celebrate 60 years of reign. She died in 1901. _

_*I don't know when Sarah O'Brian started working at Downton or if she was a maid. My headcanon says she might have been. Well. You'll see. _

_*Lady Stockbridge/Stockbridge House: I borrowed the name Stockbridge from Julian Fellowes too (Gosford Park, 2001)._

* * *

><p>Thank you so much for the lovely reviews and support! I'm really glad, you like the story. Thanks a lot to my wonderful Beta Lindsay Grissom too :)<p> 


	3. Second year

**Second year**

**(1903)**

It has been a good year. Things have been calm and everything is as it should be. King Edward VII was proclaimed Emperor of India, the Dowager won the prize for the most beautiful rose at the annual flower show and the house the cricket match against the village. He even managed to score 78 runs in the first innings; a new personal record. It has been a good year indeed. Until yesterday that is, until Mrs. Winter chose Boxing Day of all days, to break her intentions to retire after the London season. She has been housekeeper of Downton Abbey for as long as he can think; running the household ever so smoothly, a stoic presence through garden and dinner parties, balls, births and funerals.

Her sudden decision to abandon the family is a shock to his system. He simply cannot imagine Downton without her and Mrs. Winter's suggestion that they make the Scottish head housemaid her successor makes him feel even more uncomfortable. It's not that Elspeth Hughes isn't a good worker, he's not denying that. Why would he? He prides himself on his willingness to admit facts when he sees them and pretending she is idle would be like pretending she isn't a beautiful woman.

Which is the problem, he thinks while he rubs the polishing cloth over a persistent stain on the silver candlestick in his hands. He has met his share of housekeepers during the years. In small houses and big ones, be they ghastly beldams or generous old birds; they all had one thing in common. It's simple and yet he feels it's one of the most important aspects of the art of good housekeeping: the position is the gender. They might wear dresses and bonnets - of course they do - but he has never considered a single one of them an actual woman. If they ever were, it was in a time long before they took the position, in another life maybe. At least he cannot remember or even imagine Mrs. Winter dressing up for her half days or going to village dances and fairs. It's not in her; it's not supposed to be.

Just like it is with the London housekeeper. Mrs. Evans, he suddenly realizes, would be a good choice, almost perfect. She doesn't know Downton, but she knows the family and senior staff. Vice versa he knows her and the way she works. They've coped with eight Seasons and he has had no reason to complain so far. Yes, he'll float the idea of Mrs. Evans and that will be it.

Satisfied with the marvelous solution he has come up with, Charles Carson puts the last candlestick into the wall cupboard, unties the green apron around his waist and stows it with the silver polish. He's about to lock the cabinet when there's a knock at the door.

"Ah, there you are, Mr. Watson", he welcomes Lord Grantham's valet and there's a satisfied hum in his deep voice. "Please make yourself comfortable."

"My, Mr. Carson, I haven't seen you this jolly for weeks", Watson states as he takes his seat, does so on the left chair as every evening, and puts his leather pipe bag on the table. "Is there any particular reason for your good mood?"

"There is. A very good reason actually, although it lies within a sad business. But pleasant things first – like this 1874 Chateau Mouton Rothschild", Charles explains and pours the dark red liquid from the decanter into the two glasses on the table.

The valet sighs contentedly. "I remember it, black currant and oak wood. One of the finest in His Lordships cellar."

"It is indeed excellent for a Deuxième Cru", he agrees. "But then Lord Grantham always chooses a noble grape when he's dining with Lady Grantham alone."

For a while both men swirl the Bordeaux in their glasses, smelling at it, taking the first careful sips, mouthfuls kept on their tongues, giving the wine the chance to display its full aroma. It's one of the secret pleasures of being a butler and being a butler's friend, getting to enjoy the leftover wine when the whole house is asleep already. Wines which have nothing in common with the sour swill served in Pubs, wines which no one of their social standing would ever dare to afford or even hope to taste once in their lives. And yet here they are, savouring their velvety reward after a long day.

"Now, Mr. Carson," Watson breaks the silence eventually and starts to fill his pipe. "Tell me everything about this sad business that brings you so much happiness."

He waits a moment before he replies. Partly because he knows it is big news, partly because he knows a pause will enhance the effect. "Mrs. Winter is going to retire."

He was right. His counterpart almost jumps up. "She can't be!"

"I'm afraid she will." He smiles and sighs then. Remembers this isn't an act, no curtain to fall and cover reality.

"I suppose they'll ask Mrs. Evans to fill her post?"

"If I have a word in it, they most certainly will. As of now," he growls, "Mrs. Winter is considering Elspeth to replace her."

"Elsie?" He sounds surprised, even flabbergasted. "I don't see how that would cheer you up, Mr. Carson."

"I can assure you it does not", he protests, although he knows Watson is presumably teasing him. He always does if it comes to women, simply doesn't grasp that Charles does not talk to them more than he has to not because he's intimated, but because he has no interest at all. Even if he hadn't been butler, he's had enough of them for a lifetime, to keep a safe distance. "But unlike you it took me a while longer to think of the London housekeeper. And since I did, I don't see why Mrs. Winter would insist on her choice. Mrs. Evans will do nicely."

"Of course she will", Watson agrees. "If she accepts the offer that is", he adds, lighting the pipe between his teeth.

Charles looks at him through the wafting smoke with knitted brows. "Why wouldn't she?"

"Mrs. Evans is a Londoner through and through. Downton might be too far off the beaten track for her taste. But even if she declines, I'm sure there'll be dozens of suitable candidates if you place an ad."

"Thus you think Elspeth wouldn't be a proper replacement either?"

The valet takes a puff of his pipe and stares into the fire. Charles knows him long enough to be able to tell that he's pondering his answer carefully. "I like her; you know that, Mr. Carson", he explains finally. "Not just because she's pretty and a good dancer, but given the fact that she's a woman she's a good interlocutor as well. I'd even say she's brighter than some of our footmen." Watson pauses, smelling at the Bordeaux again, taking a draught before he continues. "But while I think she'd make a good wife to a farmer or even a shop owner, I truly doubt she'd be able to do the accounts of a house like this."

"I see." Charles nods, unsure if he should be glad or not that Watson shares his opinion. It did not occur to him Mrs. Evans might not want to become housekeeper of Downton and establishing the idea of hiring a stranger could prove a challenge. Actually he's not sure if he likes it himself. Downton runs like clockwork. It does so because everyone is familiar with their place and tasks, they are because Mrs. Winter and he know the place like the back of their hands. It would take months, year's maybe, for someone new to understand the rhythm.

"You shouldn't worry unless Elsie accepts the offer", Watson interrupts him out of his thoughts, his statement leaving Charles bewildered.

"I can see now why Mrs. Evans wouldn't want to leave London. But why on earth would Elspeth decline?"

"She could still want to find a husband."

"She just turned forty-one, Mr. Watson. Even if she wanted, it's not very likely that she will. The only single men her age within a radius of 20 miles that I know of are Randall Miller, George Booker and the Hilbert brothers. And no woman could be desperate enough to marry one of them. That is", he continues with an amused smile; sometimes it's simply nice to turn the tables; "unless you intend to -"

He's not even able to finish the sentence before Watson's laugh fills the pantry.

"You should know me better after all these years. Like hell will I saddle myself with a wife, no matter how much I enjoy the company of beautiful women. And although she might not be seeing anyone from here, Elsie might have -", he pauses, shakes his head.

"She may what, Mr. Watson?"

"Well, you see, it could mean nothing and it probably does, but I had this very strange encounter during our stay at Duneagle Castle in summer", he declares. "I was running some errands in Inveraray when this man literally ran into me in front of the post office. He apologized and engrossed me in a conversation. Where I was coming from, what I was doing up in the Highlands, how long we would stay, all those kinds of things. At some point he told me he was the coachman of the neighbouring estate and he offered me a ride back."

"Doesn't sound like a very unusual encounter to me", Charles replies, wondering about the point of the story, wondering if his friend is just trying to distract him with random talk. "At least it's no reason why I shouldn't worry about Mrs. Evans not accepting the post."

"As I said, it could mean nothing. But something in the way he asked was out of the ordinary. I couldn't put my finger on it then but later, I realized he must've known the answers already. He knew exactly who I was and actually was interested in one answer only."

Charles is still not able to make heads or tails of the story, but it has his attention now, the butler even forgets the half raised glass in his hands. "Which would be?"

"The well-being of a former housemaid."

"I suppose it's safe to say, we're talking about Elspeth Hughes?"

"It is", Watson confirms and leans a bit closer. "And now I ask you – why would a coachman put such an effort into finding out how a maid was years after she left? Why would he even know she was working at Downton if he apparently hadn't had any contact since she left the place?"

"Are you sure you didn't mention Elspeth somewhere in the conversation and he remembered her then?" Charles puts down his glass, raises it again and drinks as he listens.

"Why would I have mentioned her? Sure, he asked me about Downton, if it was a nice place to live and work at. But I did not mention any names, I'm certain about that." He runs one finger over the edge of the table, takes a deep puff. "It was a pointed question, Mr. Carson."

"Even if", Charles snorts and gets up to throw another log onto the fire. Although he appreciates his friend's efforts to make him feel better, there's no point in it, no reason. "Some Scottish stranger questioning you about Elspeth is neither sign nor proof that she'll turn down the position and marry instead. No, Mr. Watson, I'm afraid we'll have to find a way to pitch Mrs. Winter to place an ad."

"You're right." Watson rises too and joins him at the fireplace. "Still I always wondered what it all was about", he says and taps out his pipe at the mantle. "Don't you?"

"Why would I?", he replies, knowing he sounds bitter, does not even try to hide it. He doesn't like where this conversation ended up, doesn't like that he's thinking of Alice Neal now, how he can almost smell her through the smoke of the wood and tobacco that lingers in the room. "He wouldn't have been the first fool to fall in love with a woman who has no interest in him. Probably he just wanted to hear how unhappy she was without him. For his sake I hope you told him she was." 

**To be continued**

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><p><em>*Carson's 78 runs – I've no idea if it's good or bad or even possible for an amateur. I googled cricket and it's simply too complicated to want to try to understand it for a single number in a fiction. So, in this universe, Carson did very, very well and has every reason to be proud. <em>

_*According to episode 1x01 Mr. Bates' precursor was a Mr. Watson. _

_*(Deuxième) Cru – classification of vineyards in Médoc, France, since 1855. Scale was the average price per bottle within the previous 100 years. Château Mouton-Rothschild was labeled Premiers Cru in 1973._

_*I wanted Mr. Watson to stare into a fire, hence I decided the cast-iron heating stove in Carson's pantry was not installed yet in 1903 :D _

_*Being the daughter of a crofter in the Highlands, having to help on the farm and probably do other jobs to support the family, Elsie's education would've been insufficient no matter how intelligent she was. There was no compulsory schooling in Scotland until 1872. According to my research most children attended Sunday Schools before and were thought a basic knowledge of reading, writing, ciphering and the Bible. Girls often were thought reading, sewing and cooking only in dame schools. Carson and Watson would've known a woman of Elsie's age and class wouldn't have been thought more than the basics. Plus some sexism – which wasn't even a word back then. _

_*Inveraray is a town at Loch Fyne in Argyll and Bute, Scotland. The local castle was used as the filming location for Duneagle Castle, the former home of Rose and her parents, and I mixed reality and fiction a bit. Actually Inveraray Castle is the seat of the Duke of Argyll. _

_*I know that I have a slightly unhealthy obsession with details ^^_

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><p><em>Thank you <strong>so<strong> much for your lovely reviews, they make me smile. And, of course, thanks to wonderful Lindsay Grissom! _


	4. Third Year

**Third year  
>(1904)<strong>

The material of her new frock nuzzles the skin of her naked arms beneath, more cotton than silk and yet the softness thrills her. She spent more than she should have and for once she doesn't mind. She's a housekeeper now, she can afford it. She has to. No more uniform dresses provided, no more hand-me-downs, aprons and bonnets and none of her private clothes would've been good enough to represent the position and family.

Picking her new work outfit had given her an unknown pleasure. All the dresses hanging there in the stores in Ripon, all those cuts and materials; the choice she had. And buying two of them, ready-made and not just the cloth to sew them – in some way it had made her feel sophisticated and Elsie had enjoyed every minute of it. The choosing and the fitting, the moment she told the shop assistant she would buy the midnight blue one and the black. The face of the girl when she demanded 169 spare mother-of-pearl buttons to be sent to Downton Abbey along with the other purchases and how she'd put those 14 pounds and thirteen shillings onto the sales counter. Cash. Thank you so much. There really is nothing to feel guilty about. Those frocks are her treat to herself, one she feels entitled to have.

She clips the bunch of keys to the belt around her waist and carefully retrieves the brooch from the velvet pouch. After having pinned the piece of jewellery to her collar, she takes a step back. She likes what she sees in the mirror. The dark blue day dress flatters her and is modest at the same time. She looks respectable enough to be respected, undisguised enough to still recognize herself. The housekeeper. Not just a wanderer between houses anymore; always moving, seeking higher wages and positions. Not just a maid of many, but the head of them. No more wiping floors on her knees, no carpet beating and balancing on chairs and ladders to dust the furthest corners of the house, not a single chamber pot or enamel bucket to be emptied and cleaned for the rest of her life.

Of course there are other duties and responsibilities. But Mrs. Winter has trained her well, has done so ever since she took Elsie aside after her first spring cleaning at Downton two years ago and told her she'd make a good housekeeper one day. There had been no talk of her retirement for another year, but regardless the older woman had her watch every inventory she made, gave her books about housekeeping and accounting. "You might need it one day", she used to say and Elsie read them during the night, read and waited.

"You need it now." Mrs. Winter finally said this New Year after breakfast, having Elsie do the inventories and accounts ever since. The housekeeper sat next to her in her sitting room every Sunday evening, dictating endless numbers from a never ending stack of bills, correcting erroneous calculations and results until Elsie eventually found her way through the maze of wages and percentages, allowances and quantity rebates. She hated it, still does. It tires her to record and count; her need to control everything trice does.

She's not Becky after all, not her sister who does nothing but sorting and lining things up in rows of thirteen. Always thirteen, squares of thirteens if she can, one after the other. Heaven knows why, but she does. Sits there on the ground, on her good days that is, and arranges stones and corns, mice droppings, fir cones and dried peas without ever uttering a coherent sentence and Elsie hopes she'll like those ridiculously expensive buttons she sent, although no one ever knows if Becky likes anything. But if she sorts them into one of those squares, she thinks, just once. Just one square of thirteens and she might not have wasted the money. Because for Becky, a square is as good as a smile; Elsie could tell it was before she even realized her older sister was different from her and everyone else. Of course she could. Before she was any use for work she sat there next to her after all. Never too close, but always synchronous in sorting whatever they happened to sort on the clay floor.

Her lines never were as accurate as Becky's, no matter how hard she tried. It is how it is. Just like thirteen always will be her favourite number and her accounting will never be as accurate as Mrs. Winter's, even though she knows she can do it alone now. Even if she wasn't able to, there'll be no probing look over her shoulder, no one to stop her from making mistakes. She can't afford to make one.  
>The thought makes her head spin and she closes her eyes, brushes her hand over the brooch above the hollow of her throat. The pearls are cold under her touch, smooth and reassuring. There's a distant voice in her head, she hasn't heard it for years and her eyes snap open again.<p>

"I am" she says to her reflexion. Kind of, she adds in thought, notwithstanding lucky. Happy actually. "Mrs. Hughes." She whispers and takes a deep breath before leaving her room and walking downstairs.

The scissor and keys clink at her right hip with every step she takes. Mrs. Winter gave them to her the evening before, when they'd said goodbye. Her predecessor will be gone by now, some travelling, southwards maybe, seeing where to settle down for her retirement. She'll write her address so they can send on the few belongings she has packed into the two tea-chests that are safely stowed away in the attics.

She left some pictures hanging on the wall of the sitting room, but otherwise the room is clean and empty. It's Elsie's now, as is Mrs. Winters room in the attics. She'll move her things later, no time for it now; she wants to take another look at the day's cards of tasks and has to check the condition of the rooms on the ground floor before they sit down for breakfast in the servants' hall.

"Ah, there you are, Elsie!"

She nearly jumps, but manages to regain her composure as she turns and faces the cook. Her voice is too loud and cheery; it sets off an alarm within Elsie.

"Or is it Mrs. Hughes now? Should be, huh?"

"I suppose so, Mrs. Patmore", she answers carefully. "Is there anything you wanted?"

"Well, yes", she starts and pauses, smoothing out her apron. "Mrs. Winter asked me to tell you to give me the key for the store cupboard. She was also very determined you'd follow that order."

That's it, Elsie realizes. That's how her day and those to come will be. People testing the waters. "Now, was she?" she asks with a smile. "And may I ask when Mrs. Winter gave this specific order?"

"Oh", Mrs. Patmore replies with reddened cheeks. "Just this morning before she left to catch the 6 o'clock train to York. Poor old thing was in a real state, 'cause she'd forgotten. Even wanted to wake you. But I said, no Mrs. Winter, I said - let our good Elsie sleep. Her first day as housekeeper will be exhausting enough as it is and she needs all the rest she can get."

"I'm very touched that you should care so much about my wellbeing, Mrs. Patmore."

"We're colleagues, aren't we? We should stick together!"

"I agree, Mrs. Patmore. However, I'm afraid, I'll keep the key for the store cupboard under my custody."

"But Mrs. Winter –"

"Mrs. Winter wasn't in charge anymore this morning, was she?", she asks and the face of the cook turns a deeper shade of red.

"Just come and fetch me if there's anything you need."

"I will", Beryl Patmore hisses with something she must consider to be dignity and leaves, greeting the entering butler as she does. To Elsie's surprise he offers her congratulations before he asks her for an appointment to go over the day after breakfast.

"I see you've decided on a more casual outfit than Mrs. Winter", he adds and she frowns.

"Meaning?"

"A observation only, Mrs. Hughes, never mind", Mr. Carson replies with a polite nod and folds his hands behind his back. "We shall see each other at breakfast then. But you should not hesitate to contact me immediately if there are any questions or insecurities on your behalf."

For a moment she is tempted to act on his offer. Something tells her it might be the best way to handle this Charles Carson. She's even about to flutter her eyelashes when she remembers that she probably would have to play that game for years to come and never was good enough at it to keep it up longer than a day. And even that, she admits to herself, is probably an overestimation of her capabilities to play the damsel in distress. She has always resisted needing help, especially if she honestly does not.

"Thank you", she states instead with a steady voice. "But Mrs. Winter familiarized me with the procedures and left me with detailed instructions."

The butler raises a brow, does it in the way he always does when he disapproves of something, and there's silence, time ticking away while neither of them moves, battling a silent fight.

"Shouldn't you be checking the rooms upstairs by now?", he finally asks.

"I should go and check the rooms upstairs now", she says at the same time, actually started to talk a heartbeat earlier and a wave of relief washes through her. She knows what she has to do after all.

It is what she does for the rest of the day and every bed made and room cleaned up to the standards gives her a private satisfaction. Every small battle won about switching half days, mysteriously appearing bouillon cups for soup and unearned pauses makes her bite her tongue to prevent a smile. She can do it and she's going to do it well, even the book of household accounts has lost some of its intimidating impact on her when she opens it after dinner. There's nothing to add tonight, she simply looks over the last numbers to reassure herself even this can be managed.

For the first time it really sinks in that the family spends more money on food in a week than a hall boy earns in a year and it astounds her. It's the amount her mother and sister live off for one year back up in Argyll. Two full people and the Crawley's splash it in seven days. She can't blame them though. Not after having spent the same amount in Ripon. She still does not feel guilty about it, doesn't want to. She is able to send home almost a double sum from now on and her mother won't have to do the Priest's laundry anymore. Elsie never liked that she had to; not for that man with all the outrageous double standards he preached and lived. Charity. As if. Her parents hadn't done a thing that would've earned them a punishment from God. She doubts Becky is.

Her head starts to ache and she closes the book, she should go to bed. But then she could go into the bathroom first and have a bath. She had one this morning, but she could. No one is going to question her about it.

Elsie dims the oil lamp on the desk and closes the door of the sitting room behind her. There's a beam of light coming from Mr. Carson's pantry, she can hear the hushed voices of the butler and valet and stops. It feels like some strange sort of defeat to retire before him. But then he isn't working anymore either and she really shouldn't care what he might think. She has done everything that had to be done today.

And so she continues and heads to the attics. The idea of a bath is still tempting, but alone the thought of peeling of her clothes seems an unbearable task, rubbing down the bath utterly impossible. She decides a catlick will have to do tonight as she peeks into the rooms of the maids to make sure every one of them is safely tucked in bed and locks the door that separates them from the men's quarters. Only yesterday she'd been one of those to be locked away and it amuses Elsie that she supposedly has turned overnight from a potential strumpet into someone that can be trusted with this special key.

She swallows down a laugh and enters the room which is hers now, a place with no one to share. Some of her belongings are still in her old room, but she found the time to move the most important things when she'd changed into her evening dress after tea. By then one of the maids had cleaned the room and the name tag on the door had been changed already. Elspeth Hughes it says in Mrs. Winter's writing. Of course it would be hers and Elsie couldn't help but smile at the thoughtfulness of the old housekeeper when she saw it this afternoon.

After having opened a window to let in the warm summer breeze, she lights enough candles to find her way through the unfamiliar surroundings and removes the brooch from her collar. The silver and pearls in her left palm glimmer in the candle light. She had almost forgotten how beautiful the piece was while it was hidden in her trunk. Once more she runs her fingertips over the pearls; a small fortune which actually isn't hers and never to be given back.

Devoured and dead. Rotten. She does not even remember the face properly, although she should. It hasn't been ten years, nine at the most. But there's nothing but the voice.

"Wear it on your wedding day, Elsie", it says. "I won't."

**To be continued**

* * *

><p><em>*Maids earned ~ £ 28 (today = £ 2.972  3.921,70 €), housekeepers ~ £ 48 (today = £ 5.095 / 6.723,10 €) and hall boys ~ £ 16 (today = £ 1.698 / 2.240,94 €) a year in 1904._

_*Given the fact she lived in a farming village in the Highlands and was economical Elsie's mother and Becky would've been able to live on ~ 8 Shillings a week (today = £ 42,50 / 56 €), while a family like the Crawley's would've spent ~ £2 (today = £ 212 / 279,78 €) per week on fish and seafood alone.  
>*There were no shops like Primark and H&amp;M and (manufactured) goods were still rather expensive; therefore Elsie would've had to spent ~ £ 15 (today = £ 1.592 2.100,72 €) for two dresses – and those buttons._

_*^^ [1 Pound = 20 Shillings | 1 Shilling = 12 Pence_ _until 1971]_

_*Becky is autistic. No one would've known back then, she simply would've been considered to be "not quite right in the head", and hence it won't be revealed at any point of the story. The term autism was introduced in 1910, but the disorder was not described before 1938 and from then on it was still a long way to go (it is). Impairments in social interaction and communication as well as restricted interests and repetitive behavior are characteristic. However there are different forms of autism with a variety of symptoms; actually IQ (hard to rate in some cases) and functionality (therefore often used to classify, but controversial) differ from individual to individual. Monk, Nell, Carla Tate in "The Other Sister", Raymond Babbitt in "Rain Man", Linda Freeman in "Snowcake", Sam Dawson in "I Am Sam", – just some examples that might make it easier for you to understand how huge the differences can be. Moreover those fictional characters would be considered more or less "high-functioning", most of them have special aka savant skills, while there are autistic persons who are and have not as well. For more information on the subject ask Google or the librarian of your choice._

_*Although the moral treatment movement developed in the 1800s and the development of psychoanalysis started at the turn of the 20th century there were no special needs or therapy approaches like we know them today. Caring for a disabled family member mostly meant taking care of his/her physical needs, especially in lower classes. They did not have the knowledge and sources of information we have today, not the time, health insurance coverage and /or money to do/pay for more .(Even in 2015 it very much depends on class, money and the country you live in. No matter how much you want the best for the people you love, health care *is* expensive. To stay in the fictional department - think "Breaking Bad".)_

_* I'm neither an historian nor a physician, psychologist or psychiatrist; hence I won't claim anything in this FF to be 100 % science-based. Still I did and will research; trying to make sure to have at least three different sources for every fact you'll read about concerning Becky. This being said there won't be any other footnotes on the subject. This one was long enough, lol.  
><em>

* * *

><p><em>Thanks again for all those wonderful reviews, I love them! And, of course, thanks to Lindsay Grissom for taking her time to beta this story. <em>


	5. Fourth Year

**Fourth year  
>(1905)<strong>

There's a creak, footsteps on the old wooden floor in the upper attics. Distant sounds only, no louder than a whisper, though loud enough to wake him up. He listens into the darkness and for a moment there's silence, all he can hear is his own breath and the ticking of his pocket watch on the bedside table. He is wondering if he just dreamed it all, when something hits the floor above him. The thud is hardly noisier than a closing book, yet it couldn't have bothered him more if someone actually had thrown a book at his head. It is past midnight and he had hoped to catch up on the sleep he missed due to yesterday's New Year's celebrations which lasted until quarter to four.

In the old days he was able to put away a sleepless night. There were times he didn't sleep for two, times he was too busy to think about beds and pillows and rest. But those days are over, he does not even like to remember them. Actually he's too exhausted and short-tempered to think about halls and carefreeness right now. He's tired and simply wants to sleep.

Charles turns over and lights a candle, forces himself out of bed, puts on slippers and dressing gown. Careful not to wake anyone else – or to forewarn the intruder – he climbs the stairs, avoids the steps he knows to be brittle.

The loft is dark, but for a weak light coming from the section where the luggage is stored. He approaches it, sees Elspeth Hughes kneeling on the ground, she rummages through one of the chests that he knows belong to Mrs. Winter.

"What on earth do you think you are doing!?", he rumbles and she jerks, a yelp while one hand flies to her chest, the other to cover her mouth. Both palms pressed to herself she closes her eyes. "Now!?", he adds, has a hard time not shouting. She of all people; the housekeeper of Downton Abbey, a sneak thief in the night.

"What does it look like to you, Mr. Carson?", she appears to gather her courage, gives him a smile that he can only call amused. It angers him even more. Worse; it badly disappoints him.

"It looks like you were going through the possessions of someone else. Mrs. Winter's if I'm not mistaken?"

"Even if I were, she'll never find out. There's nothing in there, Mr. Carson. Not a hint or single clue to where she might be. None of these items is personal enough to be missed or couldn't have been replaced by now." She waves at the two open tea-chests next to her. "Or anything anyone would want to have back."

"Just because the contents don't seem to be valuable enough to you, doesn't mean they're not important to her."

"They can't be. All she packed were old sheets and magazines, mothy blouses and some of the xylographs which used to hang in her sitting room", she picks up one of the wooden engravings, snorts as she does. "Saint Nicolas. Lovely, isn't it? Must've highly amused her to have him of all people hanging over her desk while she filled out the ledgers."

He's losing his patience, just like she seems to have lost her mind. Careful, he thinks then, slowly. A shame. "I'm not sure what you're trying to imply about Mrs. Winter, but whatever it is, you are wrong."

She puts Saint Nicolas back into one of the boxes and looks him straight in the eyes. There's no mad glint, just something that might be bitterness, sadness even, and even stranger; pride.

"She hasn't written a single line since she left, has she?", she asks and hits a spot in Charles.

There really hasn't been a word from Mrs. Winter since she left four months ago. But then he has thought about it already, long and in-depth and knows why. "Of course she hasn't. She's busy finding a new home and settling down. She's a perfectionist and would never settle for something that's not entirely up to her standards", he repeats the satisfying conclusion he came up with.

She bursts out laughing. A second only, two at most, bites her lip then and shakes her head.

"Oh yes, she was perfect, Mr. Carson. Mainly with numbers."

"Of course she was." He's flabbergasted, especially as she really starts to laugh now. It's drowned by a gargling all too soon and his bafflement gives way to the fear she might start to cry. The prospect of being alone with a crying Elspeth Hughes in the soulless loft scares him even more than the bizarreness of her behaviour. But before Charles can even start to wonder what he would do if she'd really burst into tears, she gets up and resolutely pats invisible dust off her knees.

"Follow me, Mr. Carson", she says into the low clangour of her keys and passes him. "I'll show you the to-date unknown extents of Mrs. Winter's perfectness."

"Very well", he nods, decides to temporize and follow her downstairs.

Both avoid the offensive stairs and not even her keys make a sound as they walk; she griped them firmly the moment they entered the staircase. He's thankful she has. He does not even want to imagine running into anyone. Not at this time of the night. Not coming from a remote corner of the house, accompanied by a woman and wearing his nightgown only. He honestly doesn't need another thing to worry about.

Charles stops and so does she after three more steps, turns around and looks at him. He mouths at her to go ahead. A silent, one-handed pantomime, only illuminated by the light of the candles they carry, which is supposed to tell her that he'll follow as soon as he has changed into something more appropriate.

She nods and continues her way while he hurries into his room. It takes him longer than usual to get into the livery. He is tired and there's no one to help, waking one of the hall boys not an option. Wearing private clothes isn't either. This is about business and a suit would only undermine his authority. Hence he has to deal with several layers of clothing and the cuff links himself.

All along his mind is racing, gets caught up in contradictions. Nothing of it makes sense, neither her odd behavior nor her ridiculous assumptions regarding Mrs. Winter. By the time he finally joins her in her sitting room he's sure the results of whatever there is to come will be unpleasant. He simply should've stayed in bed and ignored the noises. They were not that loud after all.

"Now, Mrs. Hughes, would you please be so kind as to tell me what you were doing in the attics at this ungodly hour?"

"Why don't you take a seat first?"

The housekeeper pulls back the chair at her desk and he sits down after a short moment of hesitation. Ledgers, bills and papers accumulate in front of him; they're distributed around the entire room.

"I wish I didn't have to, but I'm afraid there's no escape." She closes the door and moves to stand next to Charles, runs the tip of her right forefinger over the writing on the cover of one the ledgers. "I was hoping to find a hint concerning Mrs. Winter's whereabouts, but all that was to be found was the final proof she planned her disappearance in detail."

"And why would she do that?", he digs deeper, carefully, watching every one of her movements.

"She embezzled money, Mr. Carson. Several discounts and allowances merchants grant us are not listed in the ledgers. According to her bookkeeping we paid them the full amount."

He is the one to laugh now, chuckles in a deep baritone, it tickles in his throat. "You must've misread something". She inhales sharply, stops to trace the faded letters and covers them with her palm instead. "I don't blame you however, those accounts can be very complex and opaque", he adds, patiently waits for her to answer. It's always good to have people reflect on their own conduct.

"Maybe I did", she finally states. "But shouldn't you have a look yourself first before you dismiss the subject as nonsense? Even if it's just to help me to see where my misinterpretation might have come from?"

"You are right", Charles agrees and gets up. It pleases him he was right and she has the comprehension to confess that she has reached her limits. "We'll go through it after lunch."

"Can't you have a look at it now, please? I'm confident you'll be able to find the mistake before the clock strikes one and we'll both have a restful sleep for the night. I wouldn't want to worry Her Ladyship without need tomorrow morning."

"Very well then", he gives in with a sigh, takes his seat again. He'd forgotten about the meeting of the two women and it probably really won't take longer than a few minutes. There really is no need to bother Lady Grantham with chimaeras and he can still explain the details to the housekeeper later on.

He opens one of the books, slightly bends forward and searches the entries for possible ambiguites. She remains standing beside him, looks over his shoulder, not close enough to touch, but close enough he can smell her. The weak odour of soap that is. Just the same one he uses, the one that lies in every bathroom and soap dish of the house. And yet it smells different on her. Cleaner somehow, powdery and mild. Decent. A blatant contrast to the hundreds of shades of jasmine, musk and lily of the valley which linger whenever he helps the ladies upstairs into their coats, one he finds strangely pleasant.

It's not that he doesn't like perfume. On the contrary; there are women who can carry it off. More than that, they give it a life of its own, gift the scents a new meaning. Young Lady Mary just got her first flacon for Christmas and ever since there has been the gentle memory of blooming berries in every room she was in. And roses, this distinct aura of roses, was one of the first things he fell in love with when he met Alice Neal. Roses and the most beautiful smile on earth, the gentle soul that would cry over the death of a pet in a penny dreadful between acts, the dove who was a butterfly. Still is; somewhere out there, wife of Charlie Grigg, the two-faced bastard that blinded her and is the father of the children which were supposed to be his. Theirs.

But it's all history now and he's sitting at the desk of Elspeth Hughes at one o'clock in the morning, lulled by tiredness and a warm scent, going over numbers and calculations that seem to be perfectly fine. Charles forces himself to pay more attention, gives up after three more pages.

"Those numbers look perfectly clear to me, Mrs. Hughes."

"Yes, they would." She walks over to the table at the wall and fetches a pile of bills, lines some of them on the desk. It annoys him he hasn't asked for comparative values before. It would've shortened the whole affair and he could've been back in bed already. Elspeth Hughes' confusion must've been caused by them and not Mrs. Winter's records. He compares the amounts on the bills with those the old housekeeper wrote down, stops after the eighth. "They're all in accordance with each other."

"Yes, they are", she replies and there's something in the gentleness of her voice that makes him freeze. "But suppliers like the fishmonger and fruit merchant in Topcliffe or the coal merchant in Ripon never charge us for delivery, although the fees are listed and were brought to account."

"Why would they write incorrect bills?"

"They're not incorrect," she explains. "They would charge us, if we wouldn't pay with delivery. But we always do, because it saves us about 50 Pounds a year. In theory that is, at least as long Mrs. Winter was paying them off."

He can't bring himself to scold her for the badly hidden sarcasm which baths her last words. It does make sense, yes. He doesn't believe a word. Mrs. Winter never would've embezzled money. Even he himself would be a prospect compared to her. He rubs the root of his nose, tries to put the strange puzzle together and find the fault. Eventually does.

"Where are the receipts then?" Another thing he should've asked for right away. She should've given them to him the moment she started this. Money against signature that's the order and Mrs. Winter stuck to it. He cannot count the many times he acknowledged the receipt of his wage by writing his name next to the amount on the payroll.

"I checked everything trice and they are nowhere to be found. But I'm sure the merchants will confirm they never received the amounts written down in the books."

"I could ask them, yes", he agrees, falters. Word would be spread throughout the entire county if he asked just one. "But I don't like the idea of making waves."

"You would go and see at least one of them, if you believed me, wouldn't you?"

"You have to confess it's hard to believe Mrs. Winter a fraud", he thumbs the papers, shakes his head. "No, taking further steps requires something more substantial."

She bites her lower lip again and he tries not to stare at her mouth while he attempts to figure out if it's a sign of guilt, thinking or hesitation. He can't tell, isn't able to most of the time. Just like he isn't able to rebuke her for the bad habit. If she'd get rid of it he would lose his main compass for Elspeth Hughes after all.

"What about the vintner?", she suddenly asks and he frowns.

"What about Mr. Donaldson?"

"He tops the Shillings and Pence off."

"Of course he does, we order goods worth 800 Pounds a year and it was one of the terms we agreed on when I made him main supplier seven years ago."

She leans over and this time her arm accidently touches his as she browses the ledger, does so with feverish determination and starts to read out. Soda, he thinks and listens and back stiffening, she also smells of that and there are decimals.

"January 4th 1901: 42 bottles Bordeaux, 30 Chardonnays, 24 Shiraz, 36 Burgundy, 6 Scotch and 12 Brandy. 36 Pounds, 1 Shilling and 4 Pence. January 25th 1901: 24 bottles Merlot, 24 Pinot Blanc and 36 bottles of Champagne. 13 Pounds, 15 Shillings and 7 Pence. February 15th 1901: 12 bottles Pinot Gris and 24 each of Bordeaux, Shiraz, Blanc de Noirs and Blanc de Blancs. 25 Pounds, 6 Shillings and 11 Pence."

She stops and he stares at the last number. 6 Shillings and 11 Pence that are not supposed to be listed. 15 and 7 earlier. More than a Pound that is recorded paid, but never was. Well, not to Mr. Donaldson; apparently Mrs. Winter pocketed the discount. Charles bites his tongue, tastes the pain, dismisses it, he never even would've thought about doubting the old housekeeper. He would've vouched for her. Always, no matter what. The blood in his mouth tastes metallic and he realizes she is looking at him, literally feels her gaze piercing him. He fell silent for too long.

"How much?", he manages to ask, tries to swallow down the cold taste.

"We changed suppliers more than once during the years. She was probably able to retain some Shillings and Pence on an ordinary week and should've had a tidy sum when she left. Five hundred, maybe six? It could've been more or less though."

"Which implies she has been doing this for a while."

"The first irregularity I could detect was the coal delivery in spring 1891". She leaves his side again, this time to fetch one of the books that lie on one of the chairs by the table, one that's in the staple below. She opens both without even having to search what she's looking for, hands them to him. "According to the records the Johnsons have provided us with fuel since 1827. Although it can't be proof without asking them, the agreement most certainly was made early in the business relationship."

Once more all he can do is to stare at the numbers which seem to mock him and his credulity. Bloody fool, they say and giggle, hopeless ignoramus.

"Why haven't you noticed this earlier?" He does not even try to not yell, wants to smash something. Anything. Wants to throw the books on the floor, burn them, rupture every single page before. He balls his hands into fists in order not to. "Even a silly schoolboy would be able to tell those numbers are wrong!"

"Why didn't you notice they are wrong right away then, Mr. Carson?" Unlike him she's not yelling, does not even raise her voice, but her R's whiz through the room like lashes, hitting him just like that. "So don't you dare imply that I'm incompetent, I'm no fo-"

"Mrs. Hughes", he interrupts her, thunders. No one ever dared to talk to him like this and he has had enough for one day. A lifetime actually.

She stops and although her quivering nostrils and the thin line of her mouth tell another story, she recaptures the thick Scottish brogue and apologizes calmly.

It makes his blood boil even more. Something in him simply would've preferred her to continue and give him a good reason for a dressing down. "I want to hear a reasonable explanation now."

"I have none", she says. "At least none that would satisfy you."

"The truth will do just fine, Mrs. Hughes."

"I had no reason to question her." Her voice is almost a whisper by now, a firm one though. "Or to go over the old ledgers."

"What made you do it now then?", he asks, has the unburdening feeling of finally grabbing the bottom of the entire affair and shedding it with light.

"I wanted to be prepared for the annual account with Her Ladyship."

"And why didn't you come to me instantly the moment you found out?"

"I had to be sure", she blinks a few times before she continues. "Especially as it was practically me who tampered with last year's accounts."

Although he has a reason to tear her apart now, he can't do anything but look at her in astonishment. "Why would you have done that?"

"I didn't know better back then. That is", she starts, corrects herself, staring into nowhere. "I did not realize I did until I went over the annual accounts and some of the numbers did not feel quite right."

"And you checked them and found out money was missing?"

"Not as much as I then found missing in the previous years, mainly smaller delivery fees and rebates, but enough to prove fraud without any counterevidence than my word."

"You still decided to share the knowledge with me."

"Yes, I did. But would I have done if you hadn't caught me in the attics earlier and started to ask questions? Maybe I just clutched at the only straw I was able to see at that point."

"Maybe you did", he agrees and studies her profile, the lowered eyelids and the unsteady breathing and for a fleeting moment he's tempted to put his hand on hers. Why he isn't sure of. Maybe to reassure her. Maybe to reassure himself. There's nothing to reassure though. It's not done anyway. "You shouldn't worry however, not yet. I'll talk to His Lordship first thing in the morning."

"I'm very grateful for the offer, Mr. Carson", she says with a smile. And he, he can't help to smile back as he simply has forgotten how beautiful an honest smile can be and this one is, no compass needed. It's just a brief moment though before he remembers why they are here in the middle of the night, she quickly brings him back down to earth anyway. "I think it would be best if I have a confidential talk to Her Ladyship first. The household accounts lie within her responsibilities."

He's about to deny the request, opens his mouth to speak already, when it begins to dawn on him why Mrs. Winter started her manipulations in 1891, how perfect and calculating the timing had been, the way she always seemed to have known whom to use for her own benefits. 1891. The year old Lady Grantham moved into the Dower House and Cora Crawley became the Countess of Downton Abbey. Pregnant and homesick, easy to lull in. Even if she ever had found out, young Lady Grantham would've made sure the Dower would never learn of her failure. There would've been no public prosecution. There probably won't be one now and Mrs. Winter will go unpunished.

"I see." He swallows and harrumphs, weighs the possibilities. "I'll accompany you."

"I'm not sure –"

"That wasn't a request, Mrs. Hughes." He is not going to take the risk. She's not mad after all, is decent enough and he doesn't intend to get used to another housekeeper for as long as he lives. A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush and Elspeth Hughes at least gives him the small counterinsurance that there'll be no more unpleasant surprises.

"I'll see you in the morning", he bids farewell, heads back to his room and now cold bed. Does so for two unruly hours full of dialogues with Lady Grantham, imagined and dreamed, the Dowager suddenly popping up out of thin air to announce her disapproval and disappointment. She has every right to do so. He can't blame nescience after all, should've figured it out years ago.

Trust, the malicious little snake. He will never allow her to poison him again.

**To be continued**

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><p><em>*Saint Nicolas is the patron saint of repentant thieves.<em>

_*Topcliffe is a village between Ripon and Thirsk._

_*Many women used soap only to wash, for the hair as well. Some did not even use soap for it and theirs was just as shiny and soft (given it was washed on a regular base). Of course there were other beauty products in 1905 (and earlier - like ancient times), but they were rather expensive and I don't think Elsie would spend money on something she can have with a (free) bar of soap as well._

_*Soda = washing soda. Soda and soap were the common washing agents back then._

_*It is (and was) a common thing that merchants grant rebates in order to get their money on time and/or not to lose good customers. Prices are calculated with things like that in mind._

_*According to my research a wine dealer is able to earn 20% per bottle. The rebate therefore wouldn't have been unusual and/or hurt Mr. Donaldson. In addition Mr. Carson would've received tips on a regular base for keeping the company as main supplier._

_*800 Pounds on alcoholic beverages – the family has at least opened one bottle for lunch, at dinner there's usually one white, one red and a dessert wine = 4 bottles daily. The family is home for maybe 280 days a year = 1120 bottles without entertaining a single guest. Plus Champagne, Brandy, Sherry, Port and stuff._

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><p><em>I'm so sorry it took me so long to update. But this chapter was really hard for me to write and therefore I hope you enjoyed it. Also thank you so much for the continued support. Really every new review and follower means a lot to me.<em>

_As always a huge thanks to my wonderful Beta!_


	6. Fifth Year

**Fifth Year  
>(1906)<strong>

You wake up in the middle of the night. Tangled blanket, heavy breath and your body is covered in sweat. There's wetness at places it shouldn't be. You bury your head in your pillow, trying to come down, calm down. It was just a dream after all, vague fragments, blurred faces and voices. And yet there's this wave of something pulsing through you, warm and contented while your skin remembers touches that have never been. You remember climbing and falling, giving and being given all at once. You remember things you don't have words for, things you never even would've dared to imagine.

You hold your breath and realize the fingers of your right hand are still grabbing the sheet. You loosen them, wondering if you should savor or ignore the aftermaths of the strangest and most beautiful dream you have probably ever had.

Reason tells you to get up. Get up, wash and change. But you can't bring yourself to do so, have never felt like this before. You want to bathe in the memory just a while longer, to engrave it the deepest corners of your consciousness. The lips on your neck, breathing and smiling, the hands on your back, searching, pressing, comforting. Whispered words tickling your ear, touches covering you with a warm blanket of pleasure. Odd as it is you still can taste and hear and feel all those things. They seem to be just as real as the taste of the tea you drank in the afternoon and the chit-chat that fills the servants' hall during meals, just as true as the tiredness in your bones when dawn settles in. So much nicer though.

And it's good. There's nothing wrong with it, you think, you did not ask for it and no one ever will know. It was a dream only. One that feels right. Almost deserved and far from sickness and sin. You're not even embarrassed by the pictures the vision confronted you with, the naked, tangled bodies and the noises they made, flesh meeting flesh, skin on skin, panting and moaning. You saw them, you've been one of them, letting go without even giving it a thought. You can still feel it down there, everywhere. Not longing but satisfaction and you comprehend your body really got there, got itself what it never got before. It is thoroughly spent. You are and it is lovely. More than that. It thrills you.

Wide awake now you can't envision yourself getting there in real life. Not like this. There were times you thought about it, yes. Even moments you gave in and crossed that certain line. With your body, every so often with your mind. Accidently. Thoughts you did not evoke and had not seen coming, but suddenly were there. And sometimes, occasionally, you could not resist opening the locked door in your head and entering the forbidden place. You're not proud of it, but you can't change it. Actually, you realize, you haven't been there for quite some time. There's no place for it in your life and you like your life. And so you somehow forgot, your body and mind did. At least you thought they did until tonight.

You wonder why, ponder if you read something, overheard someone, anything that suddenly implanted you with thoughts like this. You never have them without real reason. Without someone on mind and in life. There is no one, hasn't been for a while. Thank God and to hell with it.

Nobody to get even close enough to secretly brush fingertips with, nevermind someone you'd allow to see the sheer essence of you. What is left of it that is. In fact you doubt you'll ever again be able to trust someone enough to let go. Trusting, you learned, is something you should avoid, no matter how hard it is. It has the power to break you. It almost broke you.

But there was trust in your dream, security even and you're thankful for it, don't want to think about possible voids in your existence. So you travel back to the moment you woke up and further, chasing and embracing the pictures in your memory while you snuggle into your pillow again and pull the blanket closer. You clasp it like you would've embraced a lover. At least you imagine so while you savour the taste of fulfillment which slowly is coming back to you. Someone to touch you like that. Someone to take you like that. Just the way you are. Sweet little deaths.

A knock at the door wakes you; you must've fallen asleep again. You get up and wash yourself, maybe even hum one of the popular songs of your youth while you run the flannel over that body of yours that is still sticky. It's ridiculous, really, a dream making you feel so good.

Still, even days later the memory makes you smile. Sooner or later the dream is nothing more than a distant shadow; you're not even able to tell in which month you had it, let alone the day. But somehow you never forget how you felt when you woke up that night. And sometimes, at bad times, rough days, you catch yourself missing it.

The absurdity of it always cheers you up. Especially when you remember hugging your bedding like some desperate fool.

**To be continued**

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><p><em>* I think there's nothing to add actually. But if you're not familiar with the common view on sexuality throughout the centuries it might help you to google key words like fornication, promiscuity or onania. And just for the giggles I suggest you to google Kellogg's and cornflakes. There is a connection. Yes. There is.<em>

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><p><em>I'm horrible at updates and so very sorry for it. I hope you still enjoy the trip though. Thank you so very much for the great reviews, thanks to Lindsay Grissom<br>_


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